


Your Will, My Hands

by becameapasttime (mitslits)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: GRADENCE - Freeform, Gravebone, M/M, Political Shenanigans, Spartacus AU, and getting pissed on because of it, basically like extreme hazing, eating food that has been pissed in, gladiator!graves, mentions of abuse, roman!credence, slave/master dynamics, suggestions of dub!con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 01:14:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10709049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitslits/pseuds/becameapasttime
Summary: Mary Lou Barebone is the operator of a failing ludus, her children Credence, Modesty, and Chastity suffering for their misfortune. They acquire Percival Graves, a man with nothing to his name but the skill of a sword and the will to live.Mary Lou sets Credence to the task of inspiring Graves’ continued loyalty. At first Credence does so only out of duty to his family, but over time the line between duty and reality starts to blur even as things come to a head between the Romans and those they would keep as slaves.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I will be adding tags as the story continues so be sure to check them as I update! 
> 
> Also, a note about the strangeness of the narration/dialogue: I think the show Spartacus followed some sort of Latin-ization of English so they like dropped articles and stuff which I tried to emulate here. If that's not your style, I am v sorry.
> 
> A huge thank you to sarkany for beta'ing~

Mary Lou kneels over her altar, head bowed and hands clasped in supplication. Her lips move in silent prayer as smoke from burning incense twists its way towards the ceiling. 

Credence stands watching her. From the cornucopia placed in front of her, he gathers that she prays to Abundantia, the only goddess who seems to hear her prayers these days. Would that Credence himself could grant the prosperity Mary Lou seeks; it would make life easier on them all.

It is only when Mary Lou opens her eyes and takes herself from the floor that Credence dares to speak. “You sent for me?” 

“Credence,” Mary Lou says. She moves to take his arm. “Walk with me.” 

They pass through spacious halls riddled with faded patches where rich tapestries once adorned them. Throughout the house are similar signs of neglect, from the chipped stone of the marble pillars, to the shallow pools lying dry after months of drought. Bare marble takes the place of decorative rugs in much of the villa. 

Mary Lou looks upon it all with sorrowful countenance. “Such opulence fallen to waste,” she laments. Her fingers brush along a gauzy curtain, ripped at the bottom and not valued highly enough to replace. “Do you know what we had when you were born, Credence?” 

“I know only what you have told me, honored mother,” Credence says.   


Mary Lou continues as if he hadn’t spoken. “Riches. Power. Splendor beyond compare. And now look at us. Scrimping and scraping for every bit of influence, every coin that drops on the street to pad our purses.” She turns away with a low sound of disgust, flinging the curtain from her. “A pity your father did not take his debts with him when he died.”

“We are not without hope,” Credence says quietly. They still have some fine things, after all, even if they are fewer now than they were. 

Mary Lou’s eyes flash. “No. We yet have champions. If things go well for you today, we may yet have more.” 

She turns on Credence, grabbing his arms and tightening her grip to the point of discomfort. “Things must go well for you today, do you understand? I will not see this family fall to ruin,” she hisses. 

Credence stands his ground and forces himself not to flinch from her touch. “Yes,” he says quietly. “I would see you satisfied and this family honored.” 

“Then our goals stand the same.” Mary Lou releases him then, in effect a dismissal. “Return only when you have found what you seek.” 

Credence bows his head, waits until his mother has turned away, and slips quietly from the room. 

-

The crowded atmosphere of the marketplace is unfamiliar to Credence. It isn’t often that his mother entrusts him with what remains of their money, especially for a purchase as crucial as the one he seeks. But he had begged to be allowed to prove himself, and eventually Mary Lou had relented. 

The air is thick with the heat and sweat of so many bodies. Everywhere one turns there is something underfoot: an errant child, a stray cur, the goods of a market stall spilling onto the cobbled streets. Voices blend together, overlapping in a cacophony of sound that makes it difficult to hear one’s own thoughts. 

Credence cannot remember the last time he felt so light. The burden of finding suitable gladiators still rests on his shoulders, but he has time before the auction. He does not intend to waste a second of it. 

There are many things to draw his eye, but none to persuade his purse strings to loosen. What little he has must be reserved for the auction; Mary Lou would never forgive him for spending needlessly. 

As the hour for the slave auction draws closer, Credence makes his way to the open section of the square. Several others have already gathered around the small, wooden stage where the men and women will be displayed. They mutter amongst themselves about what qualities they seek from both cock and cunt. 

Credence prefers not to listen to them. His father had always told him that a man must trust his own instincts above all others; listening to idle gossip would lead to nothing more than clouded thoughts. 

When the sun has moved directly overhead, the auction begins. The Romans turn their attention to the first group of men being led onto the stage, their shackles clanking. The slave-trader stands proudly in front of his wares, all of whom halt at the sound of their master’s whip. He beckons the first man forward. 

Credence pays close attention to the slave-trader’s descriptions of his men but finds nothing to tempt him until the very last man is brought to the forefront. He stands up straighter, eyes sharpening at the shadow of a memory. 

_ Credence was ten and standing next to his father in a place his mother called godless. She had said the pits were a mere step above the Underworld, filled with the damned. Given what Credence was witnessing, he was inclined to believe it.  _

_ He had never been among people like these. His family usually traveled in higher circles where the people were primped and polished, gleaming silver among tarnished masses. The men and women that now surrounded Credence were stained with bloodrust.  _

_ They howled and screamed, some of them no more than half-dressed, all of them restless. They stamped their feet, their demands for entertainment shaking the platform, rising to the rafters above. The crowd was wild, their screams loud, their fists thrown into the air. _

_ His father’s hand landed on his shoulder.  _

_ “Bear witness to man’s true nature,” he told Credence, nodding down to the small rectangle of packed earth sectioned off by four logs.  _

_ Credence watched wide-eyed as a dark-skinned man took position in front of a large silver basin near the arena.  _

_ Two men stood to either side of him as he raised his hand and waited for the crowd to reach some semblance of quiet. It was only once the screams had turned to mutters that he spoke. “We have but one rule here.” His gaze raked his audience, teeth gleaming in a self-satisfied smirk. “Only one survives. I present to you your champions! To my left, Anakles.” _

_ The crowd showed their admiration with loud cheers as Anakles roared and pounded a fist against his chest.  _

_ “To my right,” the dark-skinned man continued, gesturing to the other man. “Percival!”  _

_ There were a few scattered cheers, but the crowd clearly held Anakles closer to heart.  _

_ Credence surveyed the two men as they were named, the applause echoing in his head. Which of them would emerge from the arena alive?  _

_ Anakles was taller and bulkier, his scar-patterned body a testament to his skill. Yet there was something about the other, Percival, that captured Credence’s attention. Something simmering in his brown eyes, a quiet tension in his body that betrayed a violent nature barely held in check.  _

_ “Choose,” the dark-skinned man said, gesturing to the basin, “and see whether the gods will favor you with weapon, or curse you with empty hands.”  _

_ Anakles reached in, drew out a small, wooden chip, and raised it in triumph.  _

_ The dark-skinned man reached for a three-lashed whip, hooks gleaming wickedly on the end of each leather strip. “A flail to Anakles!” he announced, and the crowd roared its approval. _

_ Percival reached in next. _

_ Credence found himself fully sucked into the spectacle.  _

_ “Empty hands,” the dark-skinned man laughed when Percival held up his own chip, and the crowd laughed with him.  _

_ Money began to change hands, bets made on which would be the winner. There were few, very few, placed in Percival’s favor. No one wanted to support a fighter so disfavored by the gods. _

_ “Well?” Credence’s father interrupted his thoughts. “Who shall we place our denarii on?” He looked expectantly at Credence, coin already in hand.  _

_ Credence blinked. “You mean… I have to choose?” he asked.  _

_ Credence’s father knelt in front of him. “One day you will be dominus of our ludus. When that time comes, it will be your job to determine who fights for our house and who does not. I would know which of these two you favor.”  _

_ Heart pounding in his chest, Credence turned to look at the two men again.  _

_ Both were now inside the arena. Anakles lashed the ground with his flail impatiently. Percival stood looking for all the world like a man relaxed, the restrained tension from before nowhere to be found.  _

_ “Him,” Credence said, pointing at Percival.  _

_ Credence’s father arched an eyebrow but did not voice dissent. He only placed a small bet, five denarii to one on the empty-handed man.  _

_ The announcer turned from the basin to face the arena, his back to the crowd. He raised one arm and brought it arcing down. “Begin!”  _

_ Credence watched enraptured as the match began, as captivated as the rest of the crowd.  _

_ Anakles reached for Percival with hands of leather and fingers of steel.  _

_ Percival dropped to the ground to avoid their grasp, rolling not away from his attacker, but towards him. He swept one leg out, hit Anakles squarely in the ankles, and had him on his back within seconds.  _

_ The crowd roared, and Credence felt the sound echo in his chest.  _

_ But Anakles was not so easily defeated. He jerked his arm back and to the side, the flail following in its path. It raked across Percival’s chest, leaving two weeping, red furrows in its wake.  _

_ Reflex sent Percival stumbling backwards, teeth gritted, hands in fists.  _

_ The temporary retreat afforded Anakles enough time to regain his feet. He laughed darkly as he raised his arm again, steel in his eyes as well as his smile. He targeted Percival’s eyes, whipping the lashes towards his face with deadly intent.  _

_ Credence’s breath caught in his throat. He wanted to shrink back against his father, seek comfort in the physicality of it, but such weakness would not be tolerated. Instead, he dug his fingernails into his palms and forced himself to watch.  _

_ Percival brought his arm up just in time. Spikes found their place in flesh, lashes wrapping from wrist to elbow. With one vicious tug, Percival ripped the handle from Anakles’ grasp.  _

_ Caught off-balance, Anakles stumbled forward, finding his hands empty enough to catch his fall.  _

_ Without pause to remove weapon from arm, Percival struck out.  _

_ One kick broke Anakles’ nose, sent blood streaming down his face. Another thudded into his ribs, sent him sprawling to the sand. A third and fourth to the kidneys had him curling in on himself.  _

_ Percival slowly unwound the lashes, tugging newly bloodied hooks from newly formed wounds.  _

_ The crowd shrieked their approval as he advanced on Anakles, flail in hand.  _

_ Credence jumped as a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, his father’s voice quiet in his ear. “It appears you’ve chosen well.”  _

_ Credence knew what was coming next and knew he didn’t want to see it. He wanted to turn his face into his father’s side and block out everything, but he would not be labeled a coward for foolish desire. He watched every blow, heard every scream, waited until Anakles moved no more before allowing himself to breathe again.  _

_ Percival stood the victor, blood-striped and panting. He faced the crowd as the announcer screamed his name, the crowd’s voices echoing the cry tenfold.  _

_ Credence watched Percival as coins traded hands into his father’s purse, as Anakles’ body was dragged away, as Percival let the flail fall from his hands. He looked and he looked at those fierce brown eyes, and he wondered if he was more man or monster.  _

A decade has not brought change to those eyes. Longer hair tumbles salt-and-pepper to his shoulders, skin is stained with dirt instead of blood, but those brown eyes still burn with the same fire that had allowed him to win empty-handed in a place without mercy. 

Credence barely dares to believe it. He has come to the marketplace seeking an answer to his troubles, but he had hardly expected to find it so easily. 

“A Celt,” the slave-trader says, raised voice shaking Credence into awareness. “Experienced fighter-”

“Twenty-five denarii!” Credence calls out before the man has a chance to finish. Foolish to place nearly half of what he has on one man, perhaps, but he is wrapped up in the past.   


“Thirty,” another voice calls. 

The fight in the pits flashes through Credence’s mind in segments, empty hands filled by opponent’s weapon, face and hands stained red with blood. “Forty-five!” 

The other voice does not call out again. Nor does anyone else’s.

“Forty-five for the Celt, then,” the slave-trader says, lips split in a satisfied smile. 

Credence makes his way through the crowd until he has reached the platform. He exchanges denarii for purchase and leads the man off the stage. He keeps a watchful eye on him, aware that the slave is fully capable even without weapon. 

Bound hands and Roman soldiers on the streets aid Credence, however, and the slave attempts nothing as they make their way back through the marketplace. 

It is only once they have left the crowded stalls behind in favor of dusty roads that Credence speaks. “You are Percival, are you not?”    


He says nothing, but his eyes narrow slightly. 

“Speak or be wrongly named.” The longer his silence, the greater Credence’s worry grows that memory has failed him. If this is not the man from the pits… 

“I was called Percival once,” the man finally says. “I have known other names since.” 

Relief blossoms in Credence’s chest, loosens his lungs so he can breathe again. “And which would you have now?” he asks.   


The man is silent for so long Credence begins to suspect he simply isn’t going to answer. They draw closer to the ludus, sounds of the gladiators carried to their ears by the wind. The harsh scrape of steel against steel, the dull thud of weapon meeting shield. 

They are nearly at the front gates before the slave breaks his silence. “I would be Percival Graves again.”   


Credence nods in acknowledgment as the guards haul open the gates. 

As they pass through into the ludus’ training grounds, the gladiators give them little notice, except one. She stands nearest the villa, whip curled in one hand. Her sharp eyes note Credence’s arrival, and she approaches with a respectful nod. “Dominus.” 

“Doctore,” Credence says, inclining his head in kind. He holds only respect for Seraphina, the only woman to have proven herself in the arena. 

She uses the handle of her whip to force Percival’s chin upwards, narrowed eyes giving inspection. She must like what she sees because she steps away without comment instead of concealing insult inside compliment. 

Credence heaves an internal sigh of relief. He has earned his Doctore’s approval, at least. The real test, however, stands yet in his path. He tilts his head towards the training grounds, words addressed to Doctore. “Have Percival fitted with sword and armor and set him to practice. I would have my mother see what he can do.” 

“I shall see it done.” With that, Doctore takes Percival firmly by the shoulder, half-shoving him towards the chests where they keep their gear. 

Credence does not stay to watch them. He enters the villa and begins searching for his mother, heart in his throat. In the face of explaining just how much Percival had cost, Credence’s purse feels much lighter now than it had on the walk home. The fear does not lessen when he finds Mary Lou poring over their expenses. 

“I had begun to think you had lost your way,” Mary Lou says without looking up. She tallies up a column, frowns at it, and sighs wearily. “A pity you did not. With all that we have spent on food, we could have used one less mouth to feed.” 

The words fall heavy on Credence’s heart, but he gives no sign of it. “Apologies for the interruption,” he says, “but I do not return with empty hands.” 

That seems to catch her interest. She stands, chin lifted regally, and holds out her hand. 

Credence tucks it in the crook of his arm, and the two of them make their way to the balcony overlooking the training grounds. His mother would be caught dead before she found herself amongst the dust and the sweat of the slaves below. 

“Which one is he?” she asks. 

Credence’s eyes scan the courtyard before lighting on Percival, and he points the Celt out to his mother. 

Doctore stands nearby, keeping a shrewd eye on her newest charge. 

To Credence’s immense relief, Percival seems to handle a sword as well as he’d handled the flail all those years ago. Still, he shifts his weight uncertainly. No matter Mary Lou’s judgment, he has not yet named Percival’s price. 

Mary Lou watches him for a moment or two before sniffing. “He’s not as scrawny as that Scamander boy,” she mutters. “Though a wooden post is hardly suitable opponent. Find him someone to fight tomorrow. We shall see how he does against someone who can hit back.” 

Her assessment over, Mary Lou turns to head back into the villa. She pauses in the entranceway. “How much did you pay for him?” she asks. 

Credence sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and turns away from watching the gladiators. “Forty-five denarii,” he admits quietly. He braces himself for the familiar explosion of anger, but it is nothing compared to the cold fury he finds himself facing. 

Mary Lou stands as if a statue, mouth tight and small with disapproval. “Forty-five denarii,” she repeats. 

“Mother, I have seen him fi-” 

“He cannot be worth more than thirty,” Mary Lou says, clearly uninterested in justification. “Come, I will teach you not to spend so carelessly. How many denarii did you throw away? Fifteen?” 

Dread settles low in Credence’s stomach, makes his tongue slow to answer. “Yes, mother,” he whispers. “Fifteen.” 

With a short, sharp shake of her head, Mary Lou leaves the balcony.

Credence turns back to survey the gladiators once more, eyes fixed on Percival. He prays that Percival will not fall too quickly in the arena, gathers what courage he can, and follows after Mary Lou. 


	2. Chapter 2

The practice sword is an unfamiliar weight in his hand, the armor a stranger. Percival is used to fighting with real steel and nothing but reflexes to shield him. He uses his first few swings to acclimate himself, blunted blade glancing off the wooden post. 

Doctore eventually turns to give her attention to her other gladiators. 

Percival is glad of it. Her eyes are too discerning for his taste. He is more than aware of his flaws and doesn’t need them paraded in front of the rest of the ludus. 

Shadows begin to lengthen as sky swallows sun and Doctore calls an end to their training. 

Percival follows the rest of the gladiators to return his equipment, relieved to be rid of the armor. He trails behind them down steps that lead underneath the villa to a series of corridors and cages. 

They pass through a guarded gate, closed and locked behind them, but then they are on their own. Torches flicker on the walls at intervals, shadows gathered where light doesn’t reach. 

Doctore points Percival to the largest cell. “Recruits stay in there,” she informs him. 

Wordlessly, Percival settles himself on the stone floor, one leg stretched out in front of him. He leans his head back against the bars and closes his eyes. He could do with some rest. Given the other training regimes he’s known, it is likely that he’ll be up before the sun. 

His relative peace lasts only seconds. Another recruit enters the cell and drops down on the floor opposite him. 

Percival peels one eye open. 

He’s skinnier than the rest of the gladiators, but Percival knows better than to judge fighting ability solely on looks. Tangled ginger hair sits haphazardly above blue-green eyes, and freckles pattern his cheeks, arms, and shoulders. He catches Percival looking and offers him a crooked smile. “Newt,” he says. 

“Percival,” Percival replies. He leans back again, eyes half-lidded. “How long have you been here?” 

Newt looks like he’s settling in himself, knees to his chest with his arms crossed on top of them. “A week,” he says. “You should sleep. We will be up at dawn.” 

Percival tries to heed his advice, but his mind is too busy to let him find rest so quickly. He can’t help but wonder what it will be like to fight in a proper ludus under a proper dominus. His former masters had been little better off than he himself. All they had to their names were a few guards and what he earned in the pits. 

The Barebones are far above their level. Their villa speaks to that, as does his high price that the boy had paid without hesitation. Percival knows his worth is about half what Dominus had paid. He has had no opportunity to find glory in the arena; the crowds will not recognize his name. The only place he has any meaning is the pits. 

Eventually, fatigue drags at Percival’s limbs, and he surrenders to sleep. 

Newt was right; the first of the sun’s light has just started seeping over the horizon when Percival finds himself back in the courtyard. 

Doctore stands in front of two wooden beams, nearly as long as a man is tall and just as thick. “Carry these,” she says. “And do not put them down until I give permission.” 

It is a trial to position the beam on his shoulders, but Percival eventually manages to find a balance. Bowed under its weight, he follows Newt’s footsteps in a monotonous circle. He hears the other gladiators flood the courtyard when the sun has risen higher, listens as they train. He longs to join them or at least to be allowed respite from the oppressing weight of the wood. 

By the time Doctore tells them to break and eat, Percival cannot feel his arms. Or his back. Or his legs. 

From the looks of it, Newt is in the same position. 

The two of them hobble to a canopied area on the far side of the training grounds where there are tables and benches enough for all the gladiators. They are the last to eat, forced to scrape what little is left into their bowls. 

“If this is what a proper ludus is like, then I am glad it has taken this long for me to find my way into one,” Percival mutters to Newt. 

Newt hides a smile in a spoonful. “It will be better when we stand as brothers,” he says. His eyes narrow as his lips close around the spoon. A split second later, his face screws up in disgust, and he spits it out. 

A loud roar of laughter goes up from the gladiators, some of them banging their fists on the table. 

“Don’t eat that,” Newt says, depositing his bowl back on the serving table. “They’ve pissed in it, the savages.” 

Percival looks down at his bowl, then to the other gladiators.

They’re obviously pleased with their little joke. They nudge each other, waiting to see what Percival will do. 

Willing himself not to think about it, Percival raises his spoon to his lips. He keeps his eyes on the group of gladiators as he eats what’s in his bowl mouthful by mouthful. He’s had worse done to him than such a juvenile prank, and he’ll be damned if they think something so small can get to him. It does, however, make him thankful that he hadn’t had much to begin with. It is warmer than the sun would make it, the aftertaste bitter and difficult to swallow. And gruel does not usually carry such a sour edge. 

Percival’s earlier conviction not to think about it falls through several times. Even so, he eats until there is nothing left, and only then does he place his bowl next to Newt’s. “Come,” he says. “We have training to return to.” He ignores the jeers of the gladiators as he returns to his wooden beam. His muscles protest at the thought of carrying it again, but Percival bends to the task regardless. 

“That,” Newt says, taking his place in front of his own beam, “was not wise. Brilliant. But not wise.” 

Percival inclines his head. “I have never been accused of being one of the great minds, no Panaetius, or Cleanthes,” he says. 

Newt’s laugh turns into a groan as he takes up the beam once more. 

The weight prevents further conversation. Wood feels more like stone now that the sun bears down upon them. 

Sweat drips into Percival’s eyes, makes them sting. His mouth is as dry as the earth beneath his feet, and his tongue sticks unpleasantly to the roof of his mouth. Worse, slick skin makes the beam harder to keep in place, and he has to concentrate half his energy to keeping it on his shoulders. 

Eventually it is all Percival can do to keep his feet moving. The previous day, hacking at the post, he had not imagined wood could make such an enemy. 

A reprieve does not come until there is movement upon the balcony. Percival blinks sweat away to find the stern-looking woman from the day before surveying them. 

Doctore flicks her whip, and the gladiators fall still. They turn as one to face her. 

Newt and Percival exchange glances. They stop their relentless circling, only setting down the beams when Doctore tilts her head from their shoulders to the ground. 

“Domina,” Doctore says respectfully, pressing a fist to her heart. “What would you have of us?” 

“The recruits,” Domina says. “It is time I assessed them myself.” She moves to brace herself against the railing, giving herself an unobstructed view of the grounds. 

Percival welcomes the chance to leave the furrow he and Newt have begun to create. 

One of the younger gladiators moves before Doctore even has to speak. He fetches shields and practice swords for Newt and Percival. 

The weapon lends new energy to Percival, and he swings it a few times to loosen abused muscles. He and Newt move to the center of the courtyard to present themselves fully to their Domina. 

“Begin,” she says coldly. 

_ This _ is what Percival knows. His vision narrows, world falling away until it is only him and his opponent. Fatigue is a thing of the past. All that exists now is victory, worth any cost. Without pause for breath or thought, he flies towards Newt. 

Blade meets blade in resounding crash. They match each other blow for blow all around the courtyard, Domina watching them all the while. 

Percival finds he is right not to have judged Newt for lack of size. It lends him an agility that Percival lacks. He stands at further disadvantage having little experience with the weapons he has been given. He has never been one for shields, but he is put on the defensive more than once when Newt moves faster than expected. He looks for any opening and finds one at long last. 

Percival rushes with shield instead of sword, Newt raising his own to brace against blow. Percival throws himself against the back of his shield with as much force as he can gather. 

Newt’s feet skid out from under him, and he tumbles to the ground. 

Percival’s sword is at his throat before he has time to recover. The rest of the world comes back into awareness, and he raises gaze to balcony. 

Domina is looking at him with something close to interest. “Make something more of them, Doctore,” she says. “I would not see investment wasted.” Without another word, she turns and sweeps back into the villa. 

Percival sticks his sword into the dirt, and he extends a hand to Newt. “You fought well.” 

“Yet you stand the victor,” Newt says. Crooked smile takes any sting from his words. 

The young gladiator from before comes to collect their weapons, but Doctore stops him. “Let them continue practice, Pietros,” she says.

Pietros bows his head obediently, returning to his own partner. 

“The beams will still be there tomorrow,” Doctore says meaningfully. “As for the moment… attack!” 

Newt and Percival obey. 

-

The day draws to a close with Percival already feeling an ache settling into his muscles. It will only be worse in the morning, he knows, but the few hours of rest are worth it. 

He and Newt join the gladiators as they head to their cells, taking their place in the recruits’ cage. They have neither the energy nor inclination to waste time on conversation, not when the next day will be more of the same. Within moments, both of them are sleeping peacefully. 

Percival wakes to unpleasant discovery. 

Urine splashes onto his legs and feet, the source a gladiator pressed close to the bars of their cage. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Percival snarls, quickly moving out of range. 

His sudden movement startles Newt into wakefulness, and he quickly collects his wits. 

The gladiator laughs, deep-throated and ugly. “I meant no harm, only to indulge your tastes. It is not often you meet a man with a fondness for piss. But then, I try to avoid Celts.”     


Percival is up on his feet in an instant, but Newt grabs at his arm to restrain him. 

“Litus!” a new voice snaps from further along the corridor. 

All three of them turn to see Doctore standing with her arms crossed, face set as stone. “Find where you are meant to be, or my whip will you see there.” 

“Apologies,” Litus says, no hint of remorse in voice or gaze. “I was just teaching the recruits much needed lesson.” With a nasty grin towards Percival, he moves off and disappears into the hall.

Doctore barely spares the two of them a glance before she follows. 

Percival glares down at his leg in disgust. There is nothing for it but to wait until morning when he will have access to the well. Slumping back to the ground, he stretches out his legs in front of him, arms folded over his chest. “You should not have stopped me,” he tells Newt. 

Newt does not appear apologetic. “You should not have reacted,” he counters. “I did say what you did wasn’t wise. We have enough enemies outside this ludus without making more amongst ourselves.”

Percival’s lip curls, and he turns his head away. As far as he is concerned, he will never call any man that has pissed on him ‘friend’. 

It is not easy to return to sleep, not when he can feel a cloying stickiness halfway up his shins. Soreness has begun to set into his neck and back muscles as well, making it unpleasant even to lean his head back. Resigned to spending the rest of the night at least half-conscious, Percival turns his thoughts to his earlier battle with Newt. 

What had Domina seen in them, he wonders? Did they please her? Enough for her to keep them on, that much was clear. Percival is content without fame or glory, content to play what part he has in this ludus for as long as it takes to have vengeance. His hands curl into fists, nails dig into his palm. Whatever else may happen, he  _ must _ survive. His business in this world is not yet finished. 

Eventually, the ludus stirs. The gladiators emerge from their cages and take to the training grounds as soon as the guards permit them. 

Percival is the first at the well, scrubbing his legs until they are rubbed raw and red. It does not take away the memory, but it at least helps him feel clean again. Until he catches sight of Litus and the sensation returns, as unpleasant and humiliating as intended. 

Litus feels his eyes upon him. He swaggers over to the well, practice sword slung easily over his shoulder. “Not to worry, recruit,” he says. “There will be more where that came from. I would not deprive you of such small pleasures.” 

In vain, Percival tries to block out his words. He continues to scrub at his legs though by now there is no trace of Litus left upon them. 

Litus presses forward, smirk on his lips. “Train hard, little recruit. Train hard, grow strong, and be further humiliated when you still cannot pass as one of us. You will never be a brother.” 

Percival can sit silent no longer. He opens his mouth to reply when a bucketful of water cascades over Litus’ head, followed swiftly by the bucket. 

Newt delivers a hefty blow to the top of the bucket with the butt of his sword, planting a firm kick on Litus’ backside and sending him stumbling. 

With water dripping down chest and shoulders, bucket atop his head, and sprawled in the dirt, Litus does not seem so intimidating. The display catches the attention of the other gladiators, all of whom find amusement in the spectacle. 

Percival glances at Newt in surprise. “I seem to recall a warning against making more enemies,” he says lightly. 

“Well, that’s the thing about having a lot of something,” Newt says with a shrug and his ever-present grin. “One more doesn’t make much difference.”     


Litus rips the bucket from his head, finds his feet again. He glares at the pair of them, wiping water from his eyes. 

“Apologies,” Percival says, barely suppressed amusement evident in his tone. “You were telling me how I would be humiliated?” 

With a roar, Litus flings the bucket in Newt’s general direction. In two strides he is chest-to-chest with Percival. “I would take offense.” he growls. “But I would not waste more of my time on you. Or your pet.” 

Percival stares steadily back at him, determined not to say a word. 

The crack of Doctore’s whip ends their standoff. “Graves! Scamander! Back to your beams. And it will be the worse for you if you so much as pause before darkness has fallen.” There is no leniency in her voice, and she glares at the two of them until they are back to their earlier task. 

“Litus,” Doctore continues, once Newt and Percival have obeyed her. “Back to training.” 

Litus slinks off back to his fellow gladiators, and Percival watches him go. 

Somehow, the beam does not seem so heavy anymore. 

-

Three days pass in much the same way. Percival and Newt are up at the first sign of light, carrying the beams until Percival thinks he is going to be fighting nothing more than wooden posts once he gets to the arena. 

Litus might not have taken kindly to Percival’s display at his first meal, but it seems to have earned a grudging respect from the others. Their food is unmolested after that. It almost makes up for Percival’s rude awakening. Almost. 

A break from the mundanity comes in the late afternoon. Domina appears once more on the balcony, this time with Dominus at her side. 

Doctore calls them still, and the gladiators turn to face them. Newt and Percival do the same. 

Domina takes her time before she speaks, running critical eyes over all of them, gaze lingering on the recruits. “That one,” she finally says and nods her head towards Percival. “The recruit. I would see him fight again.” 

At Doctore’s nod, Percival steps forward. 

Newt automatically moves with him, but Domina shakes her head. 

“A real contest,” she says, “with a real gladiator.” 

Percival’s brow furrows. He is not even a week into training, and though it will be far from his first fight, he has been observing the gladiators. They are not the men from the pits, desperate and unpracticed. Their moves and minds are calculated, a different thing to face. Still, if it is what he must do, it is what he must do. 

“Litus,” Doctore says. “Face Percival. Perhaps the two of can work out your grievances in battle.” 

Percival rolls his shoulders, settles into a defensive stance, and watches Litus closely as he steps up to him. 

Tension seeps into the air between them. It snaps as soon as Domina says, “Begin!” 

Percival does not even have a chance to breathe before Litus is upon him. He raises his shield just as Litus’ blade makes for his face. Haste sours his position, gives his arm an unpleasant jolt that runs from wrist to elbow. Hissing in frustration, Percival takes a quick step backwards. It does not give him much advantage. 

Litus presses his attack, blows raining unrelenting on Percival’s raised shield. He aims a series of cuts at his head, dropping quickly to attack exposed side. 

The flat of Litus’ blade manages to connect with Percival’s ribs and pain blossoms within him. He has to fight the instinct to wrap his arm around his abdomen. It gets him moving, though, sharpens his senses. He drops back a few more paces, seemingly wilting under Litus’ attack. He even goes so far as to drop to his knees, shield raised above his head. 

Litus laughs harshly. His blows are heavier now that he think he has Percival on the ropes. 

Quick as a flash, Percival drops his shield, scoops up a handful of sand, and rolls. 

The weight behind Litus’ swing does not allow him to pull out of it even though his target is gone. His sword thuds into empty ground. 

Percival does not waste his opportunity. He flings the sand into Litus’ face, dancing back out of range. 

Litus drops his shield with a frustrated roar to paw frantically at his eyes. 

While thus occupied, Percival advances on him relentlessly. Litus is skilled enough to block his blows, but he is on the defensive now, not Percival. He swings wide, switching seamlessly from attacks on his right to attacks on his left, not giving him an opportunity to recover. 

Percival goes for an overhand blow, forcing Litus to meet him above his head. Raised arms leave chest exposed, and Percival plants his foot in the center of his chest. 

Litus stumbles back a few paces. But the sand is cleared at last from his eyes, and he burns with desire for vengeance. He takes no quarter, lurches forward and swings his sword lower than expected. 

Percival tries to block but not fast enough. The blow hits him squarely in the knee, and his leg gives out. Unbalanced, he crashes to the sand. He tries to get up, but the point of Litus’ sword finds the hollow of his throat, and he lies back, defeated. 

The gladiators cheer for their brother, and Percival catches a glimpse of Newt looking slightly apologetic. 

He angles his head upwards, seeking his Domina and Dominus. 

Domina is looking with approval at Litus, and Dominus looks as if he wears a mask, expression revealing nothing. 

“Gratitude, Doctore,” Domina says. Both she and her son retreat back into the villa. 

Percival’s head falls back into the sand with a soft thump. 

“As I said,” Litus sneers, swordpoint still hovering over throat, “you will never be a brother.” With that he steps back, and joins the other gladiators in loud celebration. 

Newt takes his place, hand outstretched to help him up.

Percival accepts, too tired and disappointed to protest. He had not thought to win, but expectation does not ease the bitter taste defeat leaves in his mouth. 


	3. Chapter 3

“I would have you visit the Shaws,” Mary Lou says, arm threaded through Credence’s as they walk back into the villa. 

Credence glances at her, confusion writ plain upon his face. “Apologies, but for what purpose?” 

“To extend invitation to the exhibition we will be holding.” She gestures back in the direction of the training grounds. “I think we have a gladiator worthy of the arena. That big one, what’s his name? Litus.” 

Understanding dawns upon Credence. 

Henry Shaw the younger, newly elected Senator, was to have games held in his honor a few days hence. Gaining a foothold in those games would help the Barebone name climb from the shackles of debt.

“Mother,” Credence begins cautiously, “the games are to be held within a week.”

“Exactly why we do not have time to waste. You are to visit them today, and we will hold the exhibition day after tomorrow. They _must_ agree, Credence.” Mary Lou tightens her grip, nails biting into flesh. “Draw on your father’s name if you must; it still holds some power despite the debt he’s put us in. Take one of the girls’ slaves with you and a complement of guards. I would not have them think our family low of means.” 

The task is daunting, no less so for being sprung upon him so unexpectedly. But Credence knows better than to protest. “Yes, honored mother.” He slips from her grip and inclines his head.

Surprise at being given such another important task settles in as Credence makes for Modesty’s room. He supposes his mother must have been pleased enough with his purchase of Percival to think him capable of handling the Shaws as well. He is not sure he shares her confidence. Finding Percival had been akin to a blessing from the gods. Credence doubts they will intercede a second time. 

Credence reaches the silken curtain that guards the entrance to Modesty’s room and pushes it aside. 

His sister’s room is near black despite the sun’s height. As Credence’s eyes adjust, he sees a dark-haired woman bent over the bed, one hand placed on the small girl’s forehead.

She looks up as he enters, offers him a slight smile. “Dominus.”

“Tina,” he murmurs quietly. He moves to her side, watching his sister as she sleeps. Her breath is far too shallow for his liking. “How is she?” he asks. 

“As she has been,” Tina says with a soft sigh. “At the very least, she has not worsened.” 

There is small comfort in the words. “Can you leave her?” Credence asks, voice edged with anxiety.

Tina brushes her hand along Modesty’s brow and rises to her feet. “Of course, if you would have me elsewhere. I will ask my sister to keep eye upon her while I am absent.”

Credence nods. “You are to accompany me to Senator Shaw’s villa to show the strength of our house. Fetch your sister and wait for me at the main gates. I will meet you there with a complement of guards.” He waits to see order acknowledged before departing with one last glance at Modesty.

On his way to assemble the guards, an idea forms in Credence’s mind. If they are to exhibit their gladiators, should he not bring some along? 

He switches direction and makes for the training grounds. He rarely comes in at ground level, and Doctore spots him almost immediately.

“Dominus?” She dips her head but confusion is clear in her tone.

Credence hums in acknowledgement, the greater part of his attention on the gladiators. If they really are to participate in the games, he does not want to take potential competitors away from their training. “I would request Percival and Pietros for the day. Honored mother wants a show of force for the Shaws,” he finally says. 

Doctore makes no protest. She moves off to gather the two of them.

As he waits for her to return, Credence watches the gladiators. Do they possibly have a chance in the arena? It has been months since any of them have seen its sands, and many of them have never had the chance. There is always the possibility his mother’s plan to worm their way into the games will fail, but should it succeed it could be their last viable chance to keep this ludus afloat. 

Credence had loved his father, but it is not easy to forgive the ruin he’d brought them.

Soon, Percival and Pietros are at his side. Neither of them speak, and both are outfitted with swords of steel instead of wood.

Credence glances from weapons to Doctore, confusion plain on his face. 

“A show of force requires more than facsimile,” Doctore says quietly. 

It suddenly strikes Credence that he has no words to convince the Shaws, not really. Their show of force is just that: a show. There is nothing behind them, no real pull tied to the name of Barebone. He could very well be walking into nothing more than humiliation. 

Yet staying holed up in the villa guarantees they will not progress. Credence takes a deep breath, a soft “Gratitude” on the exhale. He leaves to retrieve the guards as commanded, and Percival and Pietros follow without question. 

By the time Credence reaches the main gate, Tina has arrived. Their group sets off along the dusty roads, headed for the town proper. 

It is a painfully silent journey. Credence longs to ask Tina for advice on what to say, but what would she know of the veiled speech of the nobility? It takes them nigh on an hour to reach the Shaw’s villa, and still Credence is no closer to having words of persuasion than when they departed. 

Guards halt them at the entrance, staring down their company. One man steps forward, orders them to identify themselves and their purpose.

“Please inform Senator Shaw that Credence Barebone requests audience,” Credence says.

To his slight surprise, they are granted entrance nearly immediately. Credence enters the villa and cannot help but wonder if their own was once as grand. He remembers it being more richly ornamented when he was a child, but he doubts it was ever as grand a spectacle as this. 

They are escorted into a long, spacious hall lined with columns and guards alike. A dais rests at the end, Shaw and his father ensconced as if on thrones. 

Credence cannot remember ever feeling so small before. “Senator,” he says, inclining his head to the younger. “Sir,” turning to the elder. 

“Barebone, was it?” It is the elder who speaks first, eyes fixed unblinking on Credence.

“Yes, sir,” Credence says. He struggles to lift his gaze but manages it in the end. He would not risk appearing impolite. 

“Your father and I were once well-acquainted,” he says flatly. “Unfortunate, the end he met. Unfortunate, too, the legacy he destroyed. I assume you are here in attempt to rebuild it.”   

Distinctly uncomfortable at being so easily read and laid bare, Credence nods.

Senator Shaw breaks in then. “Apologies, but we do not have all day to wait upon you. Speak.” 

The moment Credence has so been dreading has arrived, and he finds his mind completely blank. What would his mother say were she here? What would his _father_ say? “Senator Shaw,” he begins, “honored mother and I congratulate you on your position. We are certain you will provide the people with voice they desperately need.” 

Senator Shaw looks slightly taken aback, but he recovers quickly, an oily smile spilling across his lips. “I only hope I prove myself worthy of the nomination,” he says.

“I have come with offer to honor you at an exhibition of our gladiators tomorrow, if you see fit to attend,” Credence says, trying not to sound as uncertain as he feels.

“Why not hold the exhibition here, now?” Shaw asks, leaning forward slightly in his seat. “We have two gladiators.” He gestures off-handedly at the two armored figures directly behind Credence. “Let us see their contest.”

Percival and Pietros exchange glances, and Percival’s hand begins to drift towards his sword.

Fear at off-setting his mother’s plan spikes through Credence and he says “No!” a little too vehemently.

Shaw raises one eyebrow as Credence scrambles to recover.

“Apologies, senator,” Credence says, head lowered. “But neither of my companions have yet been tested in the arena, and it might prove a poor showing.”

Shaw hums and settles back. He takes a moment to adjust his robes, eyes narrowed in thought. “Then let us hope you provide more amusement at tomorrow’s exhibition,” he finally says.

Credence looks up, half-convinced his ears have deceived him. “You’ll attend?”

“It seems harmless enough entertainment for an afternoon,” Shaw says with a pointed look at his father that Credence can’t quite interpret. “We’ll attend.”

-

The rest of the day is a flurry of activity. When Credence returns with news of his success the whole villa is set to preparations for the exhibition.

Credence is sent back out to secure food and wine they cannot afford. He returns to find his home in the middle of transformation. Polished marble gleams in the dying sunlight, guards moving from pillar to pillar, brightening them.

Mary Lou flits around giving instructions to more guards, followed closely by Tina and Queenie. Some of the guards clear out the shallow, leaf-strewn pools, others rearrange furniture to satisfaction; none of them look pleased with doing work they consider beneath them. Mary Lou spots Credence and orders him to oversee the kitchens.

They are a foreign place to him, but Queenie is at his side in an instant. Her chief duty is attending to Chastity’s needs, but Credence knows she is close with the head cook.

“I’ll see to these, dominus,” she says, head tilted towards the recent purchases. “You can just keep an eye on the staff.”

With a sigh of relief, Credence follows along behind her. “Gratitude,” he says faintly. He has spent so much of this day feeling out of his depth that he is more than ready for it to be over.

Thankfully, Queenie proves herself perfectly capable of keeping the kitchens in hand.

Credence slips off when the servants have begun preparing the dishes that will take longer to be ready. Exhaustion lies heavy in his bones, and he avoids everyone he can on his way to his chambers. There are one or two minor run-ins, but nothing he can’t brush off. Gratefully, he collapses into bed, though he knows the next day will be more of the same. Allow his guard to drop around higher citizenry and he could very well destroy any chance of restoring the name ‘Barebone’ to its former place.

It is long before sleep finds him.

The next day dawns too soon for Credence’s liking. He wakes to Tina’s sympathetic face, her hand on his shoulder.

“Apologies, dominus, but domina has requested you,” she says.

Groaning, Credence forces himself to prepare for the day. He finds his mother already up and in the midst of the mess. 

As soon as Mary Lou spots him, she makes for him. “I need you to ensure the gladiators are ready and will be kept in line,” she says. “Should one of them take this exhibition as an opportunity for misbehavior, it will be upon your head. Am I understood?”

Credence swallows down panic before it can take hold of him. “Yes, mother.” He does not wait to be acknowledged before turning and moving out to the training grounds. Immediately, he seeks out Doctore. 

“I trust you will be able to keep our men in hand during the exhibition tonight?” Credence says, trying to sound light and conversational.  

Doctore folds her hands behind her back and stares resolutely ahead. “If you so doubt my ability, perhaps you would prefer to remove me from position,” she says coolly.

Credence flushes bright red. “Apologies,” he mumbles. “That is not at all what I meant.”

One corner of Doctore’s mouth edges into a smile, and Credence feels slightly better. “Your gladiators’ prosperity is tied to your house, dominus. They will do what you ask of them.”

Credence has never really considered that before, but he sees her point. “Well… let us get them ready,” he says.

Doctore flicks her whip and calls them to assembly. She tells them, “You are to be as statues, immovable unless called upon, expressionless no matter the events. You are there to be observed. There will be no need for thought, only obedience.” She turns particular eye to her recruits. “Am I clear?” 

“Yes, Doctore,” they chorus.

Under the watchful eye of their Doctore, the gladiators follow Credence into the villa. A few of them have been inside its halls before, but many of them have not. Some of them stare in clear amazement at the size and state of it.

Credence positions them in the room with the long, shallow pool, the most elegant room in the villa. He has just stepped away when his mother enters the room in nicer clothes than he’s ever see her wear.

She runs a quick eye over the gladiators before leveling a look at Credence. “They’re here,” she says. “The Shaws have arrived.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was easier to write than the last one lol

Percival is used to having eyes upon him. They have been there all his life: the eyes of his city when he had been a noble, the eyes of the audience in the pits, the eyes of slaveowners come to market. The exhibition, however, is an entirely different thing. 

The way the Shaws’ eyes pass over Percival as if he is nothing more than a fixture sets his skin to crawling. Even in the pits, he had been seen as a man. Here he is no better than the stone pillar he stands beside. 

The gladiators had been told that they were to be displayed for a family of nobles. What they had not been told was that that family was larger and more extensive than Percival would have thought. The room seems almost stiflingly full, and he finds himself longing for the end a mere hour after it has begun. The day is warm and unpleasantly humid. Standing still for hours on end makes his muscles ache. 

And always the eyes, ever present, ever watchful. Percival senses their stares like cobwebs ghosting over his skin, there one second and gone the next. It would be better, he thinks, if he were allowed to move. Walking would undo whatever spell he seems to be under. But all he can do is stand where he is. 

The one, small comfort is Newt at his side. On occasion he can just catch a glimpse of Newt’s crooked smile, faint but there all the same. It usually seems to emerge in conjunction with a dark-haired slave girl passing by. 

Percival remembers her from the trip he’d taken with Dominus the day before. He clears his throat, does it again slightly louder when Newt doesn’t look at him. Only when he’s sure he has Newt’s attention does he breathe, “Tina. Her name is Tina.” He cannot be sure Newt has heard him over the chatter of the nobles, but he thinks Newt’s smile grows a little wider. 

As the day wears on, the Shaws turn attention from food and drink to the main attraction. 

Senator Shaw walks up and down the row of gladiators, examining each of them at length. 

Percival is careful not to meet his eyes. The senator seems to linger in front of him, but it could be naught but imagination. Still, his shoulders sag slightly in relief when the senator moves further down the line. The scrutiny was an unscratchable itch far beneath his skin and makes him long for the end of day even more. 

Eventually, the senator seems to be satisfied. He steps away from the gladiators and rejoins his fellow nobles. 

Domina steps to the front and spreads her arm out to encompass her wares. “Fine specimens, all,” she says, ringing voice silencing what little conversation had remained. “Though no exhibition would be complete without a test of skill. Senator Shaw!” She extends her hand towards him, a smile sitting out of place on her lips. “As the guest of honor, I invite you to choose our first contestants.” 

Senator Shaw dips his head. “An offer I would be more than happy to accept,” he says. He moves to her side. The speech with which he makes his decision shows that it has already been planned. 

“Him,” Senator Shaw says, pointing to a gladiator near the end of the line. “And him.” 

Percival finds himself at the end of the senator’s finger, and his heart plummets. His interest was not merely imagined, it seems. But why should the senator be so eager to see him specifically, especially after dominus’ words the day prior? A thought comes to him unbidden and settles low in his stomach like a stone. Is it possible the senator knows who Percival Graves used to be? 

Steeling himself, Percival accepts the practice sword Pietros hands him. They fight murmillo, each granted a sword and shield and nothing more. Percival is more used to the weapons now; adaptation comes quickly in a warrior’s world. He faces his opponent and realizes he does not even know his name. Percival still has much to learn about his future brothers. 

Domina pushes the crowd back, leaving the combatants with a clear enough space for their fight. She lifts one hand, her eyes flick briefly between the two, and then she brings her fist into her palm. “Begin.” 

From the first blow it is clear that Percival has the advantage. A trickle of memory comes to him. He may not know this man’s name, but he has seen his face. More importantly, he has seen what weapon he favors. His strength is the spear, not the sword. He will have time to adjust to shorter reach only if Percival gives it to him. 

Percival has no intention of that. He steps in close, using the edge of his shield to deflect his opponent’s blow. Without pause to think, he jerks his arm upwards. His shield connects with the man’s jaw with an audible crack. 

He stumbles backwards, but Percival stays with him, determined not to let him out of range. He attacks with short, choppy blows meant to disorient and sees success in the strategy. 

It is all the gladiator can do to defend, moving his shield in accordance with Percival’s sword. 

Percival can see the moment the idea lights the gladiator’s eyes, but he spots it too late. His sword is already thrusting forward once more. He finds it trapped between opponent’s shield and sword, the flat of the blade sandwiched neatly between them. 

A twist and the sword skitters onto the ground, out of Percival’s reach. He brings his shield up just in time to avoid a blow directly to the face. As the gladiator raises his arm for another attack, Percival rips the shield from his arm, tossing it blindly in the direction of his opponent. Without waiting to see result, he throws himself into a backwards somersault, comes up clutching his sword. 

The distraction his shield had provided proved brief but served its purpose. The gladiator advances with a frustrated growl. 

Percival allows himself a small smile of satisfaction. The more emotional an enemy gets, the less rational. The fact that a mere recruit is putting up such a fight must be getting under his skin. Percival tests his theory, his next few swings sloppy and unpracticed, thudding uselessly against the gladiator’s shield. Yet he counters every attempted blow, weaves carefully in and out of reach by turns. 

The furrow between the gladiator’s brows grows deeper and deeper with each miss. Soon, there is no strategy to his movements, only anger in kinetic form. He swings wildly, and it is easier and easier for Percival to dodge or counter. 

When the gladiator is panting heavily from overexertion, Percival switches to offensive. He still has power left to channel into his blows, and he can tell his opponent is flagging. He watches carefully for an opening, slamming the flat of his blade against his knuckles at first chance. 

With a roar of pain, the sword clatters from the gladiator’s fingers. Left with only shield, he grows more desperate. 

Percival twists this to his favor just as easily. Desperation makes men miss things. His attacks come quicker and without mercy. The flat of his blade finds flesh without discrimination, harrying his opponent. Victory comes when the blunted point of Percival’s sword finds the gladiator’s stomach. 

Wind driven out of him, the gladiator collapses to his knees. A second later, Percival’s sword is at his throat. 

“We have a victor!” Domina announces. Her words are met with applause and scattered cheers. 

Senator Shaw, for his part, watches Percival intently. 

Percival relinquishes his sword to Pietros and offers hand to his opponent. It is pushed away with a muttered oath, and Percival makes his way back to the line of gladiators. He is acutely aware of eyes upon him, but when he turns to look, it is not Senator Shaw he sees. Instead it is his young Dominus. 

Color tinges Dominus’ pale cheeks when he sees that he is caught, and he turns his head aside. 

There is something about Dominus that intrigues Percival. When they had been walking back to the Barebone’s villa, he had known Percival’s name. At first, Percival had thought he must have heard tell of his days as a senator, but there had been no sign of recognition since then. The mere fact that Dominus had purchased him belay that theory. How was it, then, that he had known him? 

Percival is wrenched from his thoughts by the next match, the Thracian brothers Abalon and Rictus set against each other. 

The rest of the evening continues much in the same way. Nearly all of the gladiators get a chance to fight. Newt is paired with Litus and loses nearly as quickly as Percival had done. They swap sympathetic smiles, and Percival could swear Newt avoids looking at Tina for the remainder of the exhibition. 

Moonlight streams through the windows by the time an end to the festivities is called. 

Senator Shaw steps to the front of the crowd and raises his hand for silence. It falls gradually, and he gestures Domina forward with a tilt of his head. When she has joined him, he speaks. “Much of what we have witnessed here tonight is worthy of the Barebone legacy.” 

There are a few titters at the thinly veiled insult, and Domina’s spine straightens, but she keeps her mouth closed. 

The senator, however, isn’t finished. “I am afraid my primus is promised to another, but I would be honored to see some of your gladiators fill other sets.” 

“Of course,” Domina says. Her voice is rather cooler than it had been at the beginning of the evening, but the smile she gives him is all polite. “Which of my gladiators would you have?” 

“I believe Litus proved himself more than worthy.” Senator Shaw nods to the gladiator in question, and Litus nods back. “I would also have Percival,” Shaw continues. “An unexpected success.” His smile when he nods at Percival is positively wolfish. 

The earlier fear is back, churning through his insides again. ‘He knows,’ Percival thinks. ‘He has to.’ Dry-mouthed, he inclines his head as well. 

A voice cuts through the applause before it can truly start. “Apologies, senator, but Percival is only a recruit!” 

Percival jerks his head around to find his Dominus standing slightly behind Domina, looking somewhat stricken and more than a little apologetic. 

Senator Shaw’s smile freezes in place. “As you’ve mentioned,” he says in a sibilant tone that has Percival’s hands curling into fists. 

Domina’s hand descends on Dominus’ shoulder, and he starts. “I beg forgiveness for my son’s interruption,” she says. “Percival has proved himself a worthy opponent tonight, and I am certain he will do just as well in the arena.” 

“If it is a problem-” Senator Shaw starts, but Domina cuts him off with a wave of her hand. 

“I assure you it is not. Percival will compete in the games, just as Litus will.” She gestures with a flick of her wrist for the two of them to step forward. 

With a sense of unease still twisting inside him, Percival does. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Litus follow. 

Keeping one hand clamped on Dominus’ shoulder, Domina indicates Percival and Litus. “Tonight’s champions!” 

Light applause fills the room, and Percival finds it false. They care little for who has won a bloodless victory. His real battle lies yet before him, on the sands of the arena. His eyes slide sideways to where his Dominus stands miserably in the grip of Domina, Senator Shaw lingering beside them. 

Perhaps the arena is not his only enemy.

-

Percival’s sleep that night is fitful, despite how long the day had been. He catches snatches of dreams, glimpses of memories long buried. Mismatched eyes over leering grin, faces twisted with hatred, his city growing smaller as he leaves it behind… 

Percival jerks into wakefulness to find Doctore in the doorway of their cell. 

“Percival,” she says without acknowledging Newt, “you have been summoned.” 

Confusion flits briefly over Percival’s face, but he gets to his feet regardless. Had he done something wrong at the exhibition? Was it possible Domina had changed her mind about letting him compete? 

Tina waits for him at the mouth of the gladiator’s quarters, hands folded neatly in front of her. She nods to him and turns, clearly expecting him to follow. 

Percival does, silently at first, but eventually he cannot help but break it. “Do you know what I am wanted for?” 

Tina only shakes her head. “Apologies. I did not think it my place to ask,” she says. 

Percival waves off her apology. “I will find out soon enough.” Then, slyly, he adds, “It is a shame Newt was not chosen to fight alongside me. I am sure he would fare better in the arena than I.” 

Head tilted to one side, Tina echoes, “Newt?” 

“My fellow recruit.” Percival quickens his pace until he is walking alongside Tina. “He is quite skilled,” he says. 

A slight blush appears on Tina’s cheeks, making Percival think she noticed his gaze last night. “Did he not lose his match?” she counters, not looking at him. 

Percival can’t help but smile. “Litus is more beast than man. I myself have known defeat at his hands.” 

Tina looks like she wants to respond, but they have reached the villa, and both of them resume their silence. She leads him to a small room right off the training grounds. 

Dominus stands waiting in robes of dark red, a pair of scissors held loosely in his hands. 

The sight does not clear up Percival’s confusion. 

“Gratitude, Tina,” Dominus says. “You are free to return to Modesty.” The statement is more command than mere dismissal, and Tina takes her leave. 

When Tina has left, Dominus turns to Percival. “Apologies,” he says, lifting the scissors, “but honored mother has said you are to be made presentable for the games. She would have your hair shorn…” his voice falters, “so that you do not look like an animal.” 

Percival’s eyebrows twitch upwards. It has been long since he’s seen his own reflection, and one hand runs automatically through his hair. Does he truly look feral? 

Dominus tilts his head, indicating that Percival should sit. 

Obediently, Percival perches on the edge of the cushioned chair. Dominus combs through his hair, touch surprisingly gentle as he works out tangles and snarls Percival had not even noticed. 

For a while, the only sound is the soft snip of the scissors, followed by the even softer sound of his hair hitting the ground. Eventually, Percival summons enough courage to speak. “Do you share Domina’s opinion, Dominus?” he asks. “Of my appearance.” 

Dominus seems to be taken aback by the question, scissors pausing in their work. “No,” he says quietly. 

Percival does not mean to smirk, but he is glad that Dominus is behind him and cannot see it. He does not speak again until the scissors fall silent and Dominus steps away. 

To Percival’s surprise, Dominus presents him with a small disc of burnished copper, polished enough to show reflection. “I hope I have not done too poor a job,” he says uncertainly. 

Percival stares entranced at the figure in the metal. He raises his hand and watches it follow, runs his fingers through newly shortened hair and marvels that it does the same. He is unrecognizable from the man he used to be. Senator Shaw’s face flashes through his mind, and his lip curls. Perhaps not so unrecognizable. 

Dominus’ face falls at the brief expression of disgust. “Apologies,” he mumbles. “I do not have much practice.” 

Percival starts at the sound of another voice. For a moment, he had forgotten that he was not alone. “It matters not,” he says with what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “It will grow back sooner than later.” 

Dominus gives him a halting smile in return and returns the disc to the drawer whence it came. “You are free to return to your quarters,” he says. 

The instinct to obey has Percival taking a step before he halts himself. “Dominus,” he says carefully. “I wonder if I might ask you a question.” 

Dominus’ brow furrows, but he gives consent. 

“You asked me if my name was Percival when we had only just met,” Percival says, keeping his eyes trained on Dominus’ face. “How did you know it?” 

If Dominus is surprised by the question, he doesn’t show it. Instead he smiles again, a far more genuine one this time. It is the first time Percival has seen such a thing. “My father took me into the pits once when I was younger. Yours was the first match I saw,” Dominus explains. 

Percival turns to leave, but his Dominus continues. 

“You stood against Anakles,” he says with the dreamy look of one who is seeing past instead of present. “Without weapon. Flail to bare hands, and yet you won within minutes.” His eyes lose their distant focus, coming back to the man in front of him. “I remember wondering whether you were more man or monster.”

Percival grimaces slightly. “I cannot say I blame you for that, Dominus,” he mutters. “There were times in those days when I did not know myself.” 

Silence descends between them for a long moment. 

“You’re dismissed, Percival,” Credence says quietly.

“Of course, Dominus.” With that, Percival slips out of the still room and into the bustle of the training grounds. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry this took so long, i don't even have an excuse
> 
> also, this is probably going to be unbeta'ed from now on because the lovely sarkany has a life of her own that she needs to live, so any mistakes are gonna be my fault

The games create an all-consuming atmosphere. The moment Credence steps into the coliseum, he is folded into it, wrapped up in the fever-pitch excitement the crowd exudes. It has a power that unnerves him. Even so, he is not entirely immune to it, and he makes his way to the pulvinus with anticipation coursing through his veins. 

The Barebones are the last to arrive. Mary Lou greets the Shaws warmly and extends lukewarm politeness to Minutius Artus, provider of the primus. 

Credence can see the displeasure lurking just behind his mother’s eyes. Someday, perhaps, they will be worthy of the primus again. 

For now, they take their place at the back of the pulvinus. 

As the event draws closer to its beginning, Credence’s excitement changes to anxiety. How will their gladiators fare? They have few assets as it is; losing even one would put them in worse position. 

Idle chatter fills the pulvinus, but Credence does not take part. He has used all his pretty words inviting the Shaws to the exhibition and can find no more to give. Even if he had possession, he finds the game sickening. Honeyed words do little more than hide the bitter taste of poisoned meaning. 

“Gratitude for the honor of such coveted position,” Mary Lou says, gesturing to the pulvinus around them. 

Senator Shaw inclines his head with a polite smile perched on his lips. “I had hoped to please you. It is a thrilling thing, is it not, to be at last restored to what was once your common place?” 

Mary Lou’s smile tightens, but she only dips her head to hide its falseness. “Thrilling indeed. Though it was not  _ so _ long ago as to have faded from memory. I am certain even my son can recall games viewed from such a seat.” She turns to him with expectation, and Shaw follows her lead. 

Credence swallows down the displeasure of being under such scrutiny. “I can only recall one or two occasions,” he mumbles, a desperate attempt to please them both. He can tell he has not succeeded by the blaze of his mother’s eye and wishes only to see the end of the games.

It seems to take an age, but the restlessness of the crowd eventually calls for advancement. 

The elder Shaw bows to their clamor and rises to his feet. “Valued citizens of Rome!” He sweeps his arms to indicate the masses, and they shriek in response. “Honored guests!” He nods to the favored few in the pulvinus. 

Dry-mouthed, Credence returns the nod.

“It is my immeasurable pleasure to present you with these games, thrown in honor of my son, our newest senator.” Shaw gestures to his son, silently gives him permission to take command of the crowd’s attention. 

Sterile smile in place, the senator moves to stand beside his father. 

The crowd grows impossibly louder, and Credence almost wilts against the wave of sound. How can Shaw stand there, so utterly confident, in front of thousands? How can anyone possibly fight under so many eyes? 

Credence is so wrapped up in his thoughts, he almost doesn’t notice when Senator Shaw begins speaking. 

“Truly, I am humbled to be your representative,” he’s saying, as calm and collected as if he were addressing one instead of one thousand. “It is my sole purpose to serve you, fair citizens, and I only hope that I do so well.” 

There is a scattering of polite applause, but speeches are not what the spectators have come for. 

Senator Shaw’s smile turns knowing. “Shall we begin the games?” 

The response is deafening, and the senator laughs openly. 

“Very well!” he shouts, matching their volume. “Our first match has so graciously been provided by the Barebones.” He nods to Mary Lou, and she nods in return, gives the crowd a small wave. Senator Shaw continues without further pause. “Enter Percival!” 

He is an unknown, his name ready on no one’s lips. The crowd shows their ignorance through jeers and shouts of disapproval. They do not want to root for someone they do not think will win. 

Credence digs his fingernails into the palms of his hands. Their opinion, he knows, will have no outcome on the actual match, but their death wishes leave an iron taste in his mouth. They continue to ring in his ears as one set of gates winches upwards. 

Percival walks through the gauntlet of displeasure as if it means nothing to him. He stands at the edge of the arena and extends his sword towards his Domina and Dominus in respectful salute. 

Senator Shaw sweeps his hand toward the gate. “And from the ludus of ever-honorable Minutius, I give you Rados and Harus!” 

The opposite gates open -- and two men step forth. The crowd roars approval, eager to see an uneven match.

Credence’s heart catches in his chest. He leans forward slightly in his seat, as if there is something he can do. 

“You did not mention there would be two competitors,” Mary Lou says. Her voice is light, but Credence can hear the strain hidden beneath it. She would not have willingly sacrificed Percival. 

Senator Shaw gives her a winning smile. “Didn’t we? We could pull the match, but I am afraid it would be to the crowd’s displeasure.” He sweeps his hand to indicate the cheering masses. “Nevertheless… we could call a halt.” He makes as if to stop the proceedings, but Mary Lou shakes her head. 

“No, no,” she says quickly. “Things are as they are. We shall see how Percival fares.” 

Credence wants to do something, anything, to prevent this from happening. There is only one outcome he can see. Despite Percival’s time in the pits, Credence cannot hope he’ll make it out of this arena alive. “He is only a recruit,” he says in a voice too small to hear as the senator turns back to the crowd. 

The fact inescapable is that Credence’s fate is tied to Percival’s. Should Percival fall, what favor Credence has found will as well, and punishment swift and merciless will follow. Red and gold flash before Credence’s eyes and, shuddering, he curls into himself. 

“Begin!” Senator Shaw says, fist dropped into open palm. 

Credence lurches forward in his seat as Percival squares up against his opponents. 

The battle begins to the cheers of the crowd. Credence can do nothing but sit with heart in throat instead of chest. He watches Percival parry, thrust, roll, dodge, evade death with every movement. And yet, despite the odds set against Percival, first blood goes to him. 

It sprays in an arc onto the sand and turns it red as bloodlust, freed from Harus’ body. 

Percival seems to come into his own after that. He slips into the rhythm of battle with terrifying grace, sword merely extension of hand, feet quick of movement. 

Mary Lou leans forward in her seat; her eyes glimmer with interest. 

This, Credence knows, should be a good sign. The more interest she has in Percival, the more likely they both are to stay in her favor, but something about the way she watches him makes his stomach turn. 

It’s a hungry look. 

Rados and Harus are bleeding from a dozen places before their first hit lands. 

Credence winces. It isn’t as bad as it could be, but the new-bleeding slash across Percival’s abdomen must hurt terribly. “Come on,” he can’t help but whisper. “I’ve seen what you can do.” 

Almost as if he’s actually heard him, Percival strikes out with his shield. The blow lands squarely on Rados’ nose, the blood temporarily blinding the gladiator. Percival moves with deadly purpose, slashing open his wrist so his sword falls to the sands. Percival follows it with a cut across the throat. 

Rados collapses to his knees. His eyes roll to white, and he pitches forward, lies still. 

Percival has no time to savor his victory before Harus is on him. 

The itch of anxiety lies just below Credence’s skin as he watches their blades meet again and again in a dozen places. The luck that had so recently favored Percival seems to have taken its leave. 

Neither of them hold the upper hand for long. 

Senator Shaw turns to Mary Lou. “Your man is putting up more of a fight than expected,” he says lightly. “Especially for a trainee.” 

Mary Lou lifts her head proudly, as if the credit is hers instead of Percival’s. “Our ludus deals only with the greatest fighters,” she smiles back. 

“I would not rank him among the greats just yet,” the senator says. He nods to the battlefield. “The tide could turn at any moment.” 

Mary Lou radiates tight-lipped disapproval, but says nothing. It would not do to argue further with one of the most powerful men in Rome. 

Credence only half-pays attention to their small conversation. The greater part of his attention is focused on Percival. He himself is no expert in fighting, but he thinks the tide has turned in Percival’s favor. 

Harus is giving ground, retreating two steps for each step forward. Eventually, Percival has Harus’ back pressed up against the edge of the arena. 

Once more, Percival favors shield instead of sword. He knocks Harus’ weapon from grasp with a well-placed blow to the knuckles and places the edge of his shield against his throat, crushing breath from lungs. 

Percival twists to look back at the pulvinus. 

Senator Shaw rises to his feet. He surveys the crowd, most of whom are calling for death, their thumbs pointed towards the earth. “Well? Shall we spare good Harus?” 

The answer is clear even before the question is asked. The crowd takes up the chant of “Death!” and Shaw smiles broadly. 

Credence is close enough to see how brittle it truly is.

Shaw raises a fist, thumb held parallel to the ground. 

Credence finds himself holding his breath. Saving Harus could undercut Percival’s unlikely victory, and he isn’t sure Shaw will hold to the will of the crowd. 

Slowly, Shaw turns his wrist until his thumb stabs downward. 

Percival skewers Harus to the roar of the crowd. Red runs down the defeated gladiator’s chin, spilling in crimson streams down his throat, dripping onto Percival’s shield. 

Percival raises both sword and shield in victory. He salutes the pulvinus once more before leaving the arena, and Credence could swear their eyes meet even across such a distance. 

Next he blinks, however, Percival has turned to make his way from the arena. 

Mary Lou settles back against her chest. The hunger in her eyes hasn’t diminished in the least. 

-

Relief floods Credence when the games finally come to an end. Both of their gladiators emerged victors and won them coin. Mary Lou will have no reason to punish him that night. 

More than that, it is a relief to leave the quiet condescension of the Shaws behind. After Percival’s sound defeat of both his competitors, the atmosphere in the pulvinus had turned icy. The Barebones were not meant to have won that match, that had been disturbingly clear. Credence fervently hopes the Shaws will be far removed from the next game the Barebones participate in. 

He and his mother begin the ride back to their villa, Percival and Litus in a cart behind them. Credence had suggested arranging for one after getting a closer look at Percival’s wound. The gash in his abdomen had at least stopped bleeding, but it needed to be treated as soon as possible. 

They speak little on the return journey; Credence does not want to risk incurring his mother’s wrath through misplaced word. He’s too busy thinking about the games to talk besides. Percival’s final salute had sent a terrible thrill down Credence’s spine that had only intensified when their gazes met. 

Percival had been just as deadly, just as impressive, as he had been down in the pits. There was glory to be found in the arena. Credence is more convinced than ever that glory is well within Percival’s reach. 

When they return to the villa, Credence hands the reins off to one of the guards and attends to the gladiators, as is expected. 

“Litus, Percival,” he says as they alight from the cart. “Both of you have fought well. A small portion of your winnings will be allotted to you in gratitude for the honor you have brought upon this house.” He offers them a smile that is not half as useful as coin. “You are both to report to the medicus to have your wounds taken care of.” 

“Dominus.” Litus bows his head and moves off to obey the order. 

Percival lingers only a moment longer before doing the same. “Dominus.” His eyes burn when he dips his head but are carefully blank when he lifts it. 

Credence does not know which unnerves him more, the fire or the emptiness. 

-

Credence pauses in front of Modesty’s room. The sun is below the horizon, but there is a possibility she is not yet asleep. His question is answered when his sister’s voice calls out to him, thin but lively. 

“I can see your shadow, Credence. Come tell me about the games!” 

Caught out, Credence moves into the room. He is surprised to see Modesty not only awake, but sitting up. Several pillows prop her up, but even so, Credence casts a censorial glance at Tina, seated at the bedside. 

Tina wrings her hands. “Apologies, Dominus, but she insisted on seeing you tonight.” 

Credence turns his disapproval onto Modesty. 

“Sleep would not have come anyways,” Modesty pouts. “I was worried about our gladiators. What happened?” 

Sighing fondly, Credence draws closer to her bed so she doesn’t have to strain to see him. “They both fought well. Percival even took on two gladiators.” He kneels to be more on her eye level. 

Modesty’s eyes go wide. “Two?” she asks incredulously. “And he stood victor?” 

Credence can’t help but smile at her shocked expression. “He did,” he assures her. 

“He must be a fearsome gladiator,” Modesty says with a firm nod. 

Laughing lightly, Credence agrees. 

The amusement melts off Modesty’s face a few seconds later, and she balls up her fists. “It isn’t fair that I don’t get to see the games.” 

A shudder tiptoes down Credence’s spine. He wouldn’t want Modesty to see even a fraction of the violence that had taken place in the arena. “They aren’t a pleasant thing to watch, Modesty,” he says, voice low. 

“Why not?” Modesty sounds genuinely curious. 

“Because watching a man die isn’t an easy thing,” Credence says bluntly. 

Modesty’s brow furrows. “But they’re just slaves. They don’t really matter.” 

From the corner of his eye, Credence sees Tina’s hands tighten in her lap. “Modesty,” he says, a bit sharper than he intends, “everyone’s life has value. Even a slave’s.” 

A new voice interrupts them. “You’re not supposed to be in here, Credence. And you, Modesty, are supposed to be asleep.” 

Sighing, Credence gets to his feet. “I was only here for a moment.” He turns to face Chastity and is surprised to find that Queenie isn’t with her. “Where is Queenie?” 

Chastity shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m old enough not to need someone around all the time.” She glances briefly at Modesty, and her gaze softens slightly. “We should go. Modesty needs to sleep.” 

“I know.” Credence leans down to press a kiss to her forehead. 

Modesty is back to pouting. She opens her mouth to protest but interrupts herself with a yawn. 

Laughing softly, Credence passes a hand over her head. “Get some rest. I’ll tell you more about the games tomorrow, if you wish.” 

Modesty obediently closes her eyes. 

“Goodnight, Tina.” Credence gives her a small nod. 

Tina returns it. “Dominus. Sleep well.” 

Chastity accompanies Credence out of the room. “Honored mother wants to see you. She’s in her rooms,” she tells him. 

“What does she want?” Credence can’t think of what use she would have for him. She can’t possibly mean to punish him when the games went so well. 

Chastity only shakes her head. “All I know is that she told me to find you.” 

Dread settling low in his stomach, Credence makes for her rooms. He stops outside of them; anxiety momentarily roots his feet to the ground. But uncertainty is never an asset when it comes to his mother. Schooling his features into something more neutral, Credence calls out. “Honored mother? I was told you wanted to see me.” 

“Credence.” Her voice reaches him through the silk curtain. “Come in.” 

Credence can read nothing in her tone. He whisks the curtain aside to find her pacing the room. “Honored mother?” Rarely has he seen her this agitated; the last time in memory is when the medicus informed them of Modesty’s clinging illness. 

She doesn’t stop her pacing. “That gladiator that fought today. The first one. What was his name?” 

“Percival Graves,” Credence says hesitantly. A hundred reasons she could be asking about him fly through his head, none of them pleasant. 

Mary Lou stops her pacing, pins Credence under her stare. “He fought well,” she says. 

Credence blinks. Is this some sort of trap? “He did,” he agrees. 

“The Shaws meant to kill him.” Mary Lou resumes her pacing. 

The thought had occurred to Credence, of course, but hearing it out loud makes his blood run cold. 

But Mary Lou isn’t finished. “Yet he didn’t die. They won’t like that. He could save this ludus, Credence, do you understand that? All we need is one good fighter to elevate our name.” She whirls to face him. “Who knows what the Shaws will do to keep us from rising? They could try to kill him again, or worse, buy him for their own.” 

“I don’t think-” 

Mary Lou cuts him off. “You must inspire his loyalty, Credence. You will do whatever it takes to keep him here in this ludus, fighting for the Barebone family.” Her voice is hard as steel, her eyes merciless. “ _ Whatever  _ it takes.” 

Credence’s brow furrows. “Honored mother?” If coin and glory is not enough for Percival, he can’t think what else he might offer.    


Exasperation rolls off Mary Lou in waves. “Surely you have seen the way he looks at you. I had planned to whip the desire out of him, but now it seems it can be turned to our advantage.” 

Credence’s world tilts on its axis. He clutches at the nearest pillar to keep himself upright. “But… But I can’t… with a slave…” 

“Do you think you would be the first?” Mary Lou waves his concerns away. “No one needs to know about it save you and him.” She turns her back on him, a clear dismissal. 

Credence’s head is still spinning. He had known his mother was willing to go to great lengths to restore their family to its place of old, but even he hadn’t thought she would use him in such a way. He stumbles out of her room. 

Can he do it? Will he, even if he can? His stomach churns at the reasoning behind it, but Credence can’t deny there is something appealing about Percival. His strength, the way he’d looked fighting on the battlefield, whatever had passed between them when he’d saluted… 

But, Credence reminds himself, he is not the only person in this equation. How would Percival feel if he knew Credence’s motives? 

Credence’s thoughts are still whirling as he lays himself down to sleep. Perhaps his mother is wrong, and Percival doesn’t desire him after all. That would certainly make things easier. He would simply have to find another reason to make him stay. 

Clinging to that hope, however faint it might be, Credence closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep. 


End file.
